


Contingence

by ianavi



Series: Short Ends [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, M/M, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:31:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3335171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianavi/pseuds/ianavi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How long could he keep this up? How many engineered events and obvious moments of reprise before he lost track, failed to react as was expected, failed to keep silent. Any subtlety of the first weeks was now gone and a manic tempo was taking over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contingence

His mornings would start with careful planning of the day ahead. Not the work that consumed him, even that had to be put on hold for a few moments. Not the utterly mundane quotidian maintenance of meals and dusty carpets, he rarely wasted thought on that. As soon as he awoke he'd start mapping out a series of meticulously staged events. The pattern had to remain irregular, the locations and occasions varied. Each event a choreography resulting in a seemingly accidental physical brush, a brief but solid contact. Over the past two weeks their frequency was increasing, so now he had to carefully pace his actions. It was a constantly present and escalating, volatile desire. There seemed to be no end to this need, no satiation in sight. And he was acutely aware his current acts of mischief, infantile and ridiculous, would soon become obvious to even the most unobservant bystander. He did not know what would happen if he was found out, called out for it, or how he could stop.

He was occasionally simply in the way, unresponsive to a politely voiced inquiry, and had to be shoved with a gentle but determined nudge of a hand at his back, elbow, and that one particularly thrilling evening, hip. He catalogued each occasion, each touch. Late at night he's stand in front of the bathroom mirror and envision smudges and prints across his skin in vivid colors. Several spots were tactful favorites, but he imagined the tint appearing elsewhere, stretching from his shoulder across his chest, reaching down his torso, wrapping itself around him. He was breathless, pulse fast, pushing his palms to his eyes and stifling the muttering that threatened to turn into a scream. He brutally pressed his own fingers into charted traces of touches, bruising, wincing at the pain, lingering with his fingertips, bruising more.

He'd lean to fetch something from the kitchen table making sure to brush an arm or knock against a mug ensuring a steadying grasp. He'd ask for something but averted his eyes as it was passed to him which had on three occasions so far resulted in his hand caught and the object pressed into his palm. He was intentionally inattentive while standing on or near roads requiring urgent and heavy-handed plucking from possible collisions with pedestrians and vehicles. Approaching busses had by now been exhausted as props. Minor cuts to hands, or in one bold moment his right foot, while handling and dropping a glass or a plate were no longer an option.

Every event brought his thoughts to a standstill for a micro-moment, only for his mind to erupt with awareness of point of contact, pressure, texture, warmth. At its epicentre he'd feel his skin electrified and painfully tender even if the touch was light. He immediately flushed, frequently shivered, and one time his discomposure resulted in a stammered and breathy utterance. Arousal burned through him leaving him lightheaded and disoriented beyond the anchoring touch. He was sure his damp skin reeked, his erection was noticeable, his blush, his thunderously loud heartbeat. Whenever possible and as soon as possible he'd seek privacy. At home his room, but between taxi rides and street strolls he plotted brief escapes to dark passages where facing sooty walls he unbuttoned his trousers and quickly and roughly palmed himself to a climax that never satisfied him fully. And with each counted and catalogued occasion he pressed back into the contact a bit more.

How long could he keep this up? How many engineered events and obvious moments of reprise before he lost track, failed to react as was expected, failed to keep silent. Any subtlety of the first weeks was now gone and a manic tempo was taking over.

So he attempted the almost event. The maneuver in a back of a taxi that would result in cloth skimming along cloth, the scent of warm skin so close he could taste it. Faking sleep on the sofa of a freezing living room knowing those hands would cover him with a blanket, perhaps even smoothing its edges. Almost. Almost touching. Still, in front of that mirror, or laying on his bed in the darkness, he could expand the almost into phantasies bordering on the uncomfortable.

Of course, all the planning could not protect him from his own growing frenzy. An incident. A very real and unscheduled stumble and his own hands flew forward and to his side, one of them managing to grasp a wrist for a moment before he forced his fingers to let go, before he let himself fall.

And there was now a small collection of glances and outright stares laced with suspicion. And morning planning turned into sleepless nights of ever convoluted scenarios of brief contacts. His time was almost up and this brought about the most strange acceleration of thought. Although he knew a mistake was probable as his stress levels rose, or perhaps just the accumulation of preposterous events was to be finally seen for what it was. 

When it finally happened he was anything but prepared.

Morning. Tea. Hand. Standing angled to the table, one extended hand, casual while it reached, ready to knock the cup sideways and spill said tea. At midpoint of his planned trajectory strong fingers grabbed his wrist. And did not let go. He tried to speak but only wheezing left his lips. Still not letting go the other man got up from his chair and looked straight into his nervously blinking eyes. For a moment he thought he had the strength to handle this, brush it off, construct a witty quip and leave. But looking into those eyes he understood the whole charade was over. The hand steady and firm on his wrist. He tingled with embarrassment. His throat caught in a series of dry swallows as his body inexplicably tilted front and to the left, as if all past imprints on his skin weighed him down. He was beyond disbalance. He was trembling. So he closed his eyes in a childish attempt to disappear from reality catching up to him. How could he excuse himself, voice a possible explanation, force his shaking legs to carry him out the door as they were collapsing under him? No. This little game was over. 

"You've been pushing. Are you ready to talk about it?"

His skin started to itch. He felt an escalation within, an unraveling. Still at an awkward tilt for a few moments too long. Swallow. With a surge of panic he bolted for the flat door on unsteady feet still loudly wheezing only to be caught and gently maneuvered to sit on the edge of the sofa. He was unable to think, intermittent trembles jerking through his body, his fingers caught midair tapping at nothing, an unnerving hiss invading his hearing. He was being spoken to, but he could not make out the words. Oh, no, no no.

Calm hands settled on his shoulders, then moved to the back of his neck bringing his face against a solid stomach. Oh. With a broken moan he collapsed onto it, bringing his hands up to grasp at the wool jumper. One warm hand stayed a reassuring heavy presence at the back of his neck, the other's fingers brushing gently through his curls. He inhaled still gasping. Warmth. Sweat. John. John holding him. And not letting go. The world fell away as all his senses sunk into that touch. Soothing fingers continued to stroke his hair and ease him from his tense state. His own breath finally calming after long minutes, he became aware of John's even breathing. Feeling very tired his let his chest and shoulders slump further forward into the embrace.

A light brush against the strained knuckles of his left hand alerted him to ease his grip. He felt John shift but that anchoring hand never left the back of his neck and he stayed calm. Soon the man was sitting next to him and he was being repositioned with firm hands, brought fully onto the sofa and draped across John's chest with his nose and mouth snug against a warm and fragrant neck. A full-body shudder shook him and then he settled again. Just breathing. One hand always just at the base of his skull, firm and so comforting, the other caressing his back, pressing him lightly. He loudly sighed and felt himself blush intensely. Embarrassed, he started to squirm and tensed his fingers against the strong chest but more pressure and a whispered shush relaxed him again. So warm. This was nothing like his experiment in fleeting touches. He was enveloped in John, his sense of smell saturated with the man, his eyelashes catching against his hairline, his mouth on his skin. He allowed his lips to part, and feeling euphoric and particularly bold, he brought the tip of his tongue to taste. The man shivered and pulled him in even closer. He moaned and blushed some more. Soon shy occasional flicking of the tip of his tongue became enthusiastic licking, mouthing, sucking. Hands slid to the small of his back and his hips gripping as his own breathing became labored, then back up until they enveloped his face and brought their lips together.

There was nothing gentle and restrained about how John held him, kissed him, sucked at his lips and his tongue, grunting, and completely in control. He was incredibly aroused and in a moment of uninhibited joy he bit John's bottom lip. John growled and his strong hands rearranged limbs until he found himself in his lap and straddling his thighs. He pulled away for a brief moment and looked at the man below him. Flushed, sweating, quietly panting, lips irritated red, and yet his eyes were tranquil, hands steady as they possessively gripped his waist. Still watching him calmly John slid down one hand to massage his buttocks while the other's open palm delicately brushed his erect and straining cock. John gave him the softest smile. And he was lost, throwing himself back down to lick and suck John's mouth with abandon, pushing his hands to feel skin and muscle under that jumper, rutting against that palm with no restraint, loud and needy. With a shout he climaxed almost immediately. Lips smiled against his. A whisper.

"Yes."


End file.
